Ventre de biche! we have not dined together for a week."
"It is not our fault, but I know that your duties keep you near our King Henry III., while my duties fill up my time."
"Yes, but it seems to me that is so much the more reason why we should be merry when we do meet."
"Yes, I am merry," said Gorenflot, with a piteous look, "but still I must leave you."
"At least, finish your supper."
Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the water, and turned away his head.
"Do you remember," said Chicot, "the little dinner at the Porte Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself and others, we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grauge-Bateliere, with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice Burgundy wine; what do you call it?"
"It is a wine of my country, La Romanee."
"Yes, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son of Noah."
"It was good," said Gorenflot, "but there is better."
"So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his cellar fifty bottles to which that is paltry."
"It is true."
"True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. Fie!" And Chicot, taking the gla.s.s, threw the contents out of window.
"There is a time for all, my brother," said Gorenflot, "and wine is good when one has only to praise G.o.d after it, but water is better when one has a discourse to p.r.o.nounce."
"Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to p.r.o.nounce, am going to ask for a bottle of Romanee. What do you advise me to take with it, Gorenflot?"
"Not these herbs, they are not nice." Chicot, seizing the plate, threw it after the water, and then cried, "Maitre Claude."
The host appeared.
"M. Claude, bring me two bottles of your Romanee, which you call so good."
"Why two bottles," said Gorenflot, "as I do not drink it?"
"Oh! if you did I would have four or six, but if I drink alone, two will do for me."
"Indeed; two bottles are reasonable, and if you eat no meat with it, your confessor will have nothing to reproach you with."
"Oh, of course not; meat on a Friday in Lent!" And going to the larder, he drew out a fine capon.
"What are you doing, brother?" said Gorenflot, following his movements with interest.
"You see I am taking this carp."
"Carp!" cried Gorenflot.
"Yes, a carp," said Chicot, showing him the tempting bird.
"And since when has a carp had a beak?"
"A beak! do you see a beak? I only see a nose."
"And wings?"
"Fins!"
"Feathers?"
"Scales, my dear Gorenflot, you are drunk."
"Drunk! I, who have only eaten spinach and drunk water?"
"Well, your spinach has overloaded your stomach, and your water has mounted to your head."
"Parbleu! here is our host, he shall decide."
"So be it, but first let him uncork the wine."
M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a gla.s.s to Chicot. Chicot swallowed and smacked his lips.
"Ah!" said he, "I have a bad memory, I cannot remember if it be better or worse than that at Montmartre. Here, my brother, enlighten me," said he, giving a little to the monk, who was looking on with eager eyes.
Gorenflot took the gla.s.s, and drank slowly the liquor it contained.
"It is the same wine," said he, "but I had too little to tell whether it be better or worse."
"But I want to know, and if you had not a sermon to preach, I would beg you to drink a little more."
"If it will give you pleasure, my brother."
Chicot half filled the monk"s gla.s.s. Gorenflot drank it with great gravity.
"I p.r.o.nounce it better," said he.
"You flatter our host."
"A good drinker ought, at the first draught, to recognize the wine, at the second, the quality, and, at the third, the age."
"Oh! I should like to know the age of this wine."
"Give me a few drops more, and I will tell you."
Chicot filled his gla.s.s. He drank it off, and then said, "1561."
"Right," cried Claude Boutromet, "it was 1561."